He turned to Cynthia. "This man"—Flaim gestured at Tusk—"is to be placed under arrest. He is a traitor."
Cynthia responded instantly moved to stand beside Tusk. He lowered his head, rubbed the back of his neck, tugged casually at his left earlobe.
Dion stood near the viewscreen. He had not moved. His thoughts were far away, perhaps with his queen and his unborn child. But he was paying more attention than he appeared. He had been watching Tusk obliquely and now, catching sight of the seemingly insignificant gesture, the king began rubbing his right palm.
"Take him to interrogation," Flaim was continuing. "I want to know . . ." The prince paused, as if uncertain how to proceed.
"Yeah, what is it you want to know, Your Highness?" Tusk interjected loudly. "The location of the real space-rotation bomb? Not the phony—"
"The prisoner is not to talk, Captain Zorn," Flaim interrupted. "Unless he has something to say."
"Not the phony bomb, like the one you found—"
Cynthia slammed the butt of the beam rifle into Tusk's stomach. The blow doubled him over. She struck him again in the back of the neck, sent him crashing to the deck. And suddenly Pantha was on top of him.
"He's wired. He has to be! Yes!" Pantha caught hold of Tusk's wrist. He ripped out the metal disk, leaving five tiny spots of blood glistening on Tusk's black skin.
Pantha held the disk for the prince to see. "A bloodlink! He's been in contact with Sagan this entire time! And . . . Your Highness!" the old man cried, straightening. "I know where the bomb is. Where it has to be! In the alcazar."
"Bah!" Flaim snarled impatiently. "Sagan could have hidden it anywhere—"
"From us, yes, but not from the dark-matter creatures! They would keep close watch on the bomb. And they are still on Vallombrosa. Therefore the bomb is still on Vallombrosa."
Flaim paused to consider this, apparently decided it made sense. "What will the creatures do if he removes it?"
"I have no idea, Your Highness. They might try to stop him. They might simply accompany him to his next destination."
"Would they seize it from him if you ordered them?"
"Perhaps," said Pantha hesitantly, "but you must remember, Flaim, that the creatures are no longer taking orders from you. In fact, I begin to think that they have been using you. They used you to locate the bomb for them—"
"They brought it back to me, to Vallombrosa."
The logical place. Here they would be able to keep it safe. They paid no attention to you when it seemed you were about to leave. They knew the real bomb was staying behind. I do not think—"
"Enough! I understand," Flaim snarled, irritated, his ego bruised and hurting. "So they were using me. Answer my question! Will the creatures recover the bomb?"
"They might take the bomb from Sagan, my prince," Pantha said gravely, "but I doubt very much if they would give it to you. You must go after it yourself."
"I can never reach the alcazar in time. It will not take Sagan long to retrieve the bomb and then leave."
"You can, Your Highness, if the creatures transported you. There would be a risk, but you could be there in seconds."
"An excellent idea. Talk to them, Pantha!" the prince urged, with mounting excitement, increasing anger. "The creatures may not be here, but they are certainly listening. Convince them to take me back to Vallombrosa. Wait! Perhaps we could simply tell them to stop him—"
"I would not advise it, Your Highness." Pantha was halfway out the door. "Their idea of stopping him might be to drop the alcazar on top of him . . . and the bomb."
"Promise them anything. Tell them I'll give them the space-rotation bomb, if that is what they want. It is the man I want." Flaim ground the words with his teeth, as if he were grinding flesh.
Lying on the deck at Cynthia's feet, Tusk looked at Dion. The king had not moved, stood rubbing his palm. Tusk rolled over on his back.
"Yeah, Your Highness, I guess you are kinda eager to get your hands on Lord Sagan. No one's ever played you for a sucker before, have they? So now you and the dark-matter boys are heading down to Vallombrosa—"
"Shut him up!" Flaim ordered irritably.
Cynthia walked over to carry out instructions, raised her foot to kick him in the mouth.
Tusk rolled, lunged, made a grab for Cynthia. The instant Dion «w Tusk move, the king sprang at Flaim, grappling for the bloodsword. His hands closed over the hilt. Flaim's hands closed over Dions wrists. The two struggled.
Tusk got his hands around Cynthia's ankle, tried to drag her foot out from under her. He might as well have tried to pull a steel beam out of the deck. Cynthia knew this move, apparently She smashed the heel of her free boot down hard on Tusk's hands, breaking his grip and maybe his fingers, kicked him in the face for good measure.
Turning from an agonized Tusk, Cynthia took a moment to determine the status of the battle between the cousins. She latched onto Dion from behind, dragged him off Flaim, flung the king backward.
Dion staggered, regained his balance, surged forward once again.
Cynthia lifted the beam rifle, fired.
The blast caught the king in the chest, sent him reeling into the couch. He collapsed onto the cushions, hung there a moment. His limp body slid from the couch to the deck.
"Kid!" Tusk made a feeble attempt to reach him.
Cynthia planted her foot on his chest, pinned him to the deck.
"You haven't killed him?" Flaim demanded harshly. "I may need him."
"No, Your Highness. My rifle was set on stun."
Flaim smiled grimly, drew several deep, heavy breaths. "Excellent."
Tusk's skull throbbed with pain. His mouth was split open; his jaw ached, his hand hurt. Cynthia's back was to the prince. She was looking down at Tusk. He searched her face, hoping for some sign, some softening of the tight-clenched jaw, a flicker of the eyelid.
Nothing. She wasn't looking at him, apparently, but through him.
Tusk blinked rapidly, tried to focus his blurred eyes. It was a struggle to remain conscious, and then he wondered why he bothered. He'd done all he could, and that hadn't been much. He'd failed.
So what else was new? Just one more failure in a long series of failures. At least this one was likely going to be his last. . . .
"Your Highness!" Garth Pantha came bursting back into the room, his robes whipping around his ankles. "The creatures are considering. They insist on speaking to—"
He stopped, stared in blank astonishment.
The prince was hauling Dion to his feet. The king was groggy, but he was conscious, appeared unhurt.
Flaim motioned to Pantha to come assist him. "We'll take my cousin with us. Sagan won't do anything rash if he sees that the life of his precious king is in danger."
The prince had firm hold of Dion by one arm, Pantha took the other. Looking dazed and faint, Dion sagged limply between the two.
"What about Tusca, Your Highness?" Cynthia asked.
"Take him to interrogation. Find out what you can. Then, if he's not dead yet, kill him."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Tusk shut his eyes. Death sentence, huh? He really ought to do something about that. And he would, when he woke up . . . He heard Pantha and Flaim leave, dragging Dion with them. He heard the soft whoosh of the doors opening, sliding shut. .. .
She jabbed him with her toe. "On your feet."
Tusk rolled over, groaning loudly. He looked over at Dion .. . who wasn't there. No one was there.
Tusk blinked. "Where the—?"
"They've gone to stop Lord Sagan. On your feet," Cynthia repeated flatly.
He stood up, wiped blood from his mouth. "Now's our chance. We—"
"Shut up. Turn around." Cynthia pressed the rifle into the small of his back. "Keep your hands in the air. And don't try anything."
Four guards had entered the room, posted themselves at the double doors.
He lifted his hands.
"March," Cynthia said.
Tusk marched.
Four guards. I'll wait till I'm near the doors, then I'll jump her, get the gun away. The guards won't dare shoot me, for fear of hitting her. And good ol' Cynthia'll be my ticket outta here.
Tusk tensed, ready to spring. Then, "Shit!" he breathed.
A short, squat mechanical device trundled in through the open door.
It was his old friend—Mrs. Mopup.
The killer vacuum cleaner had at least one of her nozzles aimed right at Tusk. The four guards had turned their attention away from him, were looking at Mrs. Mopup, and grinning.
"Keep moving," Cynthia ordered. Her rifle jabbed him painfully. "You don't want to upset Mrs. Mopup."
Tusk made up his mind. Killer vacuum cleaner or no, he was damned if he was going to die screaming in some cell disrupter. He muttered a response, which was colorful, graphic, and would certainly not be included in a book of a famous hero's last words.
He took a step, planted his feet, and hurled himself sideways. Cynthia's forward momentum carried her on ahead. She started to turn. Tusk, twisting like a cat, jumped for her. His hands closed over the gun barrel; he tried to wrench it from her grip.
"You bloody fool!" Cynthia gasped.
Holding on to the gun, she jerked it from his grasp. The guards had stopped laughing and were dashing to her rescue. Cynthia lashed out with her foot, caught Tusk in the solar plexus, sent him crashing to the floor. The next moment, she landed squarely on top of him.
"Mrs. Mopup!" Cynthia shouted. "Shoot!"
Mrs. Mopup fired, four times, in four different directions simultaneously.
Chapter Seven
. . . Many things answered me—
Spirits and men—but thou wert silent all.
Yet speak to me!...
George Gordon, Lord Byron, Manfred
Emerging from the hatch of the commandeered spaceplane, Kamil gazed in wary, distrustful astonishment at the alcazar looming black against the brightening dawn. "What are we doing back here?"
"I left something behind," Sagan said, standing on the tarmac.
She stared at him in astonishment. "I thought we were going to save Dion. How can we—"
"If you're coming with me, hurry up," he told her coldly.
Kamil hesitated, frustrated. The journey to Vallombrosa had been accomplished in silence. His dark demeanor awed her, daunted her. Should she go? Or stay? What could she do if she went?
What can I do if I stay? she thought bitterly.
Kamil hurried, but she was awkward and slow-moving descending the ladder. Sagan's long strides had carried him to the entrance of the alcazar before Kamil was halfway to the ground. Afraid of being left behind, knowing she would certainly lose her way through the erratic jumble of corridors, Kamil slipped and slid the rest of the way down the ladder. Then she had to run to catch him.
"What was it you left here, my lord?" she asked, not really expecting an answer, but not liking the eerie silence of the halls of the abandoned alcazar.
"The space-rotation bomb," he replied.
"No," she said, not daring to hope. "It's on the ship. Flaim took the bomb on board."
"That one is fake. This one is real."
Kamil came to a halt, weak-kneed with relief. Dion was safe!
Her eyes flooded with tears. She dashed them away hurriedly, before he could see them, and hastened to catch up again.
It was black as night in the alcazar. Sagan switched on a nuke light, handed another to her. She flashed the light around, trying to figure out where she was, but she had no idea. She had never been able to find her way around. The oddly angled, distorted hallways had always reminded her unpleasantly of a fever-dream she'd once had. Sagan, however, moved ahead confidently.
"Will you tell me what's going on? Please, my lord?" Kamil asked him timidly. "I think I have the right to know."
"I switched bombs," he answered her—again to her astonishment.
But she had the feeling he was not talking to her. He was talking through her to someone else. So vivid was the impression, Kamil glanced to her left, half-expecting to catch sight of the lady. No one walked beside her, but the impression did not go away.
"Flaim didn't give a damn about convincing Dion to abdicate the throne. He wanted the space-rotation bomb and, in order to obtain it, he had to probe deeply into his cousin's mind, far deeper than he was able to do from a distance. That was his real reason for wanting to get hold of Dion.
"And it was my reason for bringing them together. My reason for forcing Dion to participate in the contest. I planned to switch the real bomb for the fake one. But in order to do that, I had to have the real bomb. Dion would never hand it over to me; nor should he. But Flaim would—unintentionally.
"I made the switch the night before we left Vallombrosa. Prince Flaim retrieved the bomb the next morning. He didn't know then that he was carrying the fake. He couldn't know. No one could who did not examine the bomb carefully. And than he would have had to know what to look for. Garth Pantha would have recognized the difference, but he had no reason to examine it. Why would he?
"If all had gone as I first planned," Sagan continued, talking to the lady, one longtime friend and companion to another, "Flaim would not have discovered the switch until he was on the other side of the galaxy, prepared to blow up the Corasians. I would arm the bomb and Pantha and Flaim would flee to safety. The bomb would not, of course, go off. Tusca and his mutineers would seize control of the ship, battle the Corasians if necessary, and return with the king to fight the pretender.
"That was my plan, my Lady," he said quietly, apparently completely forgetting Kamil's presence. "But the dark-matter creatures forced the issue and so I had to alter it. It is a pity they must be destroyed. They were undoubtedly harmless until they came in contact with humans. We contaminate everything we touch, it seems."
"What will we, do now?" Kamil asked, speaking for herself. She had the feeling the Lady—if she was truly here—already knew the answer.
Kamil's voice reminded him of her presence. He glanced at her, made no mention of the fact that he had been talking to someone else. Probably he had not even realized it. But now he spoke to Kamil.
"I am going to arm the bomb and set it to explode—after we've left the planet."
"Won't the dark-matter creatures try to stop the bomb from going off?"
"They can't. Once the cycle is started, only the person who knows the code can stop the bomb from detonating. My guess is that if the creatures figure out it is armed and set to explode, they will be afraid to touch it, afraid they might set it off.
"Actually," he continued, "exploding the bomb at this location will prove far safer for the galaxy. According to my calculations, the anomaly of the strange dark matter should contain the power of the blast. Reduce its destructive force."
"But Vallombrosa will be gone?" Kamil looked around.
"Oh, yes," Sagan said dryly. "I simply meant the blast would no longer possess the force needed to tear a hole in the fabric of the universe."
"I see." Kamil swallowed. "And . . . after that . . . well return to the ship?" Back to Dion, she thought, but did not say. "What will we do then?"
"If Tusca has seized control, we simply walk on board. If not, then I will take over myself. In that eventuality, Flaim will probably escape us. And His Majesty will have a continuing fight on his hands. But in the end, Flaim will fall. He does not have the makings of a true king."
"Yet you said he passed the test...."
Sagan glanced at her; a dark smile touched the thin lips. "Perhaps I lied." "You should tell that to Dion, then," Kamil pointed out. "When this is over."
"He knows," Sagan said quietly. "He told you."
Kamil remembered her conversation with Dion in the courtyard. You can't see down that road because that road doesn't exist for me, he'd said to her then. I am king.
She flushed uncomfortably, fell silent.
They continued moving farther into the alcazar. The fortress was truly ghostly now. Unse
en eyes watched them, unheard voices cursed them, silent footfalls accompanied them. A door opened as they passed by. Some distance ahead, another slammed shut.
Nerves taut, Kamil's hand fidgeted around the lasgun. She walked behind the Warlord and to his left, instinctively leaving his weapon hand free—though he was not armed—instinctively covering his back. She didn't even know she was doing it until she saw him give her an approving look.
"Your father has taught you well."
"Oh, this . . ." Kamil smiled shyly, pleased with his praise, glad to talk again. Their talk drowned out the whispers. "Actually, it was my mother. She is a shieldwife. Something I guess I'll never be," she added softly with a sigh, "no matter what happens."
"You have loved and been loved," Sagan said. "That is what's important."
Kamil, surprised, couldn't answer immediately. Perhaps Sagan had surprised himself with his comment because he pressed his lips tightly together, as if to keep a check on them.
A table tipped over as they walked past. A chair skittered across a floor.
She turned, nervously flashing the light behind her.
"The dark-matter creatures,' Sagan told her. "They are watching us."
Kamil found herself walking at his side, almost touching him. He glanced over at her, frowned. Blushing, she fell back to her former position.
The silence, which wasn't silent, was unnerving.
"You were loved," Kamil said. "And you loved."
"Not enough," he answered.
A porcelain vase lurched to the floor, shattered. Kamil gritted her teeth, shut her eyes to what was going on in the darkness around her. She edged closer to him. "I don't understand."
Perhaps he needed the sound of living voices as much as she did. Or perhaps he was again talking through her to someone else. .. .
"We both loved other things more, and that came near destroying us."
"What things?"
"Power, for one. Glory, for another. Pride, ambition, the need to control everything around us." He looked down at the five scars on his hand. "Not surprising. We were bred to it. 'The taint in our blood,' my lady used to say. But that's no excuse. Dion was bred to it, as well. And he has turned out differently. Glorie a Dieu."
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